


When Sirens Sing...

by sherlockstummy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, because Benedict's voice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockstummy/pseuds/sherlockstummy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because johnnybooboo and I decided we needed this. Sherlock gets sick with a fever. Hilarity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Sirens Sing...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnnybooboo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=johnnybooboo).



When John arrived home from a long day at the surgery, all he wanted to do was relax. Unfortunately, when you live with Sherlock Holmes, "relaxing" doesn't even exist. Not for a moment.

John trudged his way up the stairs, only to be greeted by Sherlock, literally oozing the exuberant puppy vibe.

"John, John, I found Neverland!"

The tired doctor swept a medical glance over his friend. Sherlock was balanced on the balls of his feet, radiating energy. His eyes were bright and alert, but had deep black shadows underneath. It didn't help that John had no idea what Sherlock was talking about.

"Do Baker Street a favor, Sherlock, and go to bed. I think you need it after the Roylott case."

"I'm not sleepy," whined Sherlock. He actually whined! John shook his head in amazement as he went to make coffee. Evidently, he would need a cup to deal with Sherlock tonight. "I don't wanna go to bed!"

John was familiar with Sherlock's stroppy tone, and he was having none of it. "Get in the shower, Sherlock. And then get comfortable and relax. I guarantee you'll fall asleep in half an hour."

"I won't!" Sherlock declared. But after a moment of hesitance stranded in the kitchen, Sherlock turned sharply on his heel and danced his way into the bathroom. His giddy step could be described in no other way. 

John shook his head and went to go drink his coffee.

Sherlock's head felt hazy as he walked. His limbs were like lead, cumbersome and heavy to move. He was exhausted and energetic all at once, and his vision swam before his eyes. He stumbled into the bathroom and closed the door, tumbling into the sink. His long fingers grasped the edges of the sink and he pressed the top of his head against the mirror, trying to breathe deeply. Even after only a moment of inactivity, his back sagged and his legs began to give out under him. And he couldn't even figure out what was wrong.

Certainly the case of Dr. Grimesby Roylott and his stepdaughter Helen had had him dashing about from London to Sussex and back again, in frankly dreadful, out of season bitter cold weather. But that should produce nothing but customary exhaustion, after refusing himself food and sleep for days ad undergoing such activity. But, instead, though he was tired, he found himself unable to sleep, and though he was hungry, he could barely force himself to nibble. And the thick, smog-like haze in his brain wasn't helping him.

The detective pushed himself away from the sink and began unbuttoning his shirt. The rush of cold air that rushed in to touch his pale chest made him shiver violently, and he wondered how acceptable it would be to shower in his clothes. After disrobing, he started the shower and stumbled inside, making sure to step over the tub. "Dizzying height," he mumbled. "Like climbing Mount Rushmore." Since when did he know that? It was time for another deletion cycle.

As Sherlock was washing his hair, he began doing something he'd long ago tried to prevent.

He began to sing.

John started from an unintentional nap. It took him a moment to figure out what it was that woke him. In fact, the noise made him wonder if he'd left the telly or radio on, or if Mrs. Hudson was watching a period drama. But, no, it was coming from his flat. From the bathroom. Sherlock was singing, in the shower. 

John chuckled. "Of course his singing voice would sound like an opera singer's." But it belatedly began to worry him that Sherlock was so giddy earlier, so out of character for him. And now singing in the shower? This was ridiculous. Especially since Sherlock was, essentially, singing nonsense. 

"And I caaaaannnnn dooooo what I waaaaaaannntttt and yooooouuuuuu can't teeeeellllllll me muccccchhhhhh and Iiiiiiiiiiii will never fuck youuuuuuuuuu and ahhhhhhhhhhhh and I will aaaaaaallllwwwaaayyyyys be ahead of yoooouuuuuuuu."

John abandoned his tepid coffee and frowned, slouching in his chair, debating what exactly he should do. Should he go and check on Sherlock, or let him be a silly little git? It was tempting to do both. Fortunately, an indecisive John was swayed by the infuriating man himself.

"Feeeeeevvvveeerrrrr, oh feeeeevvveeeerrrrr, oh Jooooohhhhnnnnn, I think I miiiiiigggghhhhtttt be illlllllllllll."

"Jesus fucking Christ." John stood up from his chair, stomped to the bathroom, steeled himself, and barged into the loo.

Sherlock pulled back the shower curtain, grinning like a fool, water bouncing off his back and sides and ending up in a flood on the floor. "Joooohhhnnn," he sang, "yooouuuu caaaammmeee."

John didn't speak. He dragged Sherlock out of the shower and made him sit on the seat of the toilet, throwing a towel at him and turning off the shower before the water dripped through the floor down to 221A.

Sherlock removed the towel from his head where John had thrown it and sat shivering, water dripping off him, looking at John with hazy, too-bright eyes. "Feeeever, feeeeeverrr," he sang softly, his voice dropping into low registers John wouldn't have even thought possible to achieve by the human voice without artificial editing added to it.

"Yeah, I get the message," John said affectionately, taking the towel from Sherlock and starting to dry his hair with it. Sherlock leaned inyto the treatment, his eyes closing far too easily, his singing dropped to a rhythmic humming that seemed to vibrate throughout his entire body and make every single fibre of his being tremble with the sound. John could almost feel it through the small point of contact he kept with his idiot friend. "You git," he shook his head, chuckling. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock blinked up at him as John dried his shoulders and back. "I'm unwell?"

"You sang me here," John snorted. "Like a siren, or something."

"Fucking sirens."

"And you're thinking of the sound police cars make, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"There's my detective. No, sirens are beasts in Greek mythology. They used to sing sailors to their deaths."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, sounding very much like he was five years old, and not at all like he was really (27? 30? They hadn't discussed age at all).

"I think because they fancied dinner."

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. "Ew."

"Yeah." John lifted the dead weight of his flatmate. "C'mon, let's get you to bed."

"Can't sleep." Sherlock shook his head, trying to halt John's progress forward. "Won't sleep. Can't sleep. Too much to do."

"Such as?"

Sherlock's deep voice rumbled in the deepest areas of its impressive register, but it was all nonsense John couldn't understand. "Edit the encyclopedia," was one tidbit John caught that made the most sense.

"Here," John sat Sherlock on his bed. "Get into your jimjams, and I'll be right back." He went into the kitchen and returned with a cool glass of ice water and a cold pack. Sherlock, thankfully, was fully dressed and lying on the bed.

John put the cold back in Sherlock's pillow case and handed him the water. "Drink that. Not sitting down," he added as Sherlock started to lift the glass to his lips.

"Fever." Sherlock's deep voice seemed to roll over the syllables, tasting each ones he spoke. "Feeeverr."

"Yes, Sherlock. Now, lay down on that pillow there and get some rest. Not too many covers, now." John took the duvet off the top, leaving the sheets and a light blanket on top. Sherlock curled into a fetal position and closed his eyes. 

John smiled. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, not my usual quality, but eh. I hope you like it, johnnybooboo!


End file.
